


it falls the way the rain lets go the air

by donotjustlive_fly



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hair Braiding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 13:36:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20507870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donotjustlive_fly/pseuds/donotjustlive_fly
Summary: He’s not entirely sure how he ended up here, straddling a plush footrest with an angel preparing to twist his hair into an elegant braid, but he’s… content. Happy. Utterly blissful, if he had to be honest.(Based on the lovely art by gingerhaole)





	it falls the way the rain lets go the air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gingerhaole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerhaole/gifts).

> I saw [this](https://gingerhaole.tumblr.com/post/186837097042/one-soft-demon-gets-the-extra-tlc-he-so-richly) gorgeous art of Aziraphale braiding Crowley's hair by gingerhaole and was immediately inspired to write a little something! (Sidenote- the pronoun switching that happens at one point is entirely intentional. Learning that Crowley's gender being fluid throughout history is literal canon was one of the best things to come from following Neilman on social media.)
> 
> Characters aren't mine- they're just a delight to play with. Thanks to my dear Brooke for putting her beta reading hat back on for me, thanks to Oliver for being one of my best cheerleaders, and thanks to BOTH of them for being my favorite people to bounce ideas off of!
> 
> Title from the poem ["French Braids" by Robert Crawford](https://www.poemtree.com/poems/FrenchBraids.htm).
> 
> _ While one hand is content to touch, admire_  
A balanced, careful weave—preserve for viewing  
The beauty and the boundaries of desire—  
The other hand is busy at undoing.  
The quiet hand counsels restraint; afraid  
To wreck the composition of composure,  
It's wary of destruction just for fun.  
The other wants to slip between each braid,  
To tease apart the strands, let run, spill over,  
Release, unbind, what was so neatly done.  
Your urgent kiss decides which hand is played.  
A gentle pull brings argument to closure.  
Surprised, my hands attempt to catch your hair:  
**It falls the way the rain lets go the air.**

Quiet humming, idle and off-key. Crowley can’t quite place the various songs being hummed but he recognizes enough to recall operas and concerts in cavernous halls, the plush seat beside him claimed by a bright-eyed heavenly being. Speaking of a certain bright eyed being, there’s familiar warmth along his back, the glow of a presence he’s so attuned to he can find it anywhere on Earth, now close and safe. A brush is sliding gently through his hair, bristles dragging across his scalp in a way that’s sending pleasant shivers down his spine. The fact that every stroke of the brush is followed by a hand smoothing over the curve of his skull, flattening flyways prickling with static electricity, is entirely irrelevant. He’s not entirely sure how he ended up here, straddling a plush footrest with an angel preparing to twist his hair into an elegant braid, but he’s… content. Happy. Utterly _blissful_, if he had to be honest.

Aziraphale has been braiding his hair for millennia at this point- with anxious fingers on the wall of Eden, with distraction as a massive ark was built in the distance, tiny ones when his hair was barely long enough to twist together, intricate coils when the fashion called for it and her hair tumbled in long curls down her back, French and fishtail and Dutch and waterfall. Artificially work-rough hands stained from dirt, leaves, and _life _working gently through her curls and leaving a loose rope down her back to sleep in, Warlock’s familiar little snore drifting in from down the hall. But then he’d chopped it shorter in unconscious preparation for the war they were trying to prevent, life got _hectic _and then downright _hellish_ before, against the odds, Armageddon was successfully averted by four preteen humans and a fake computer engineer (and others, of course, but those five had dealt with the important bits). They’d done the theoretically impossible to protect each other and fool their Higher Ups. Then there’d been lunch at the Ritz, which had melted into dinner bolstered by far too many bottles of very nice wine. There’d been a warm hand curled comfortably around his wrist and a thumb stroking his skin with shocking confidence and, once they’d gotten themselves safely home, there’d been a question in brilliant blue eyes before warm lips had found his own. The rest, as they say, was _6000_ _years_ _worth_ of history. 

The brush catches on a slight tangle and he winces at the sharp tug; Aziraphale tuts quietly, working through it with ease, then sets the brush aside. He combs his fingers through Crowley’s hair instead, starting at his temples and sliding backwards, down to his neck. If he didn’t know better, Crowley would say there was something almost- covetous about the touch. Or, perhaps not covetous, more… _proprietorial_. Possessive and protective and utterly confident that his touch would go unchallenged. (It goes without saying that _ that _is the truth- not a single soul Above, Below, or Earthside has captured Crowley’s attention and devotion the way the angel did from the first moment he laid eyes on the soft, peculiar being.) Part of him- alright, perhaps the entirety of his Self- craved that casual, easy assurance. Craved the certainty of Aziraphale’s claim on his very existence, mind-body-tarnished-soul. (Aziraphale would verbally thrash him if he ever found out Crowley’s assumptions on his own demon-dark soul.) He feels his head start to fall forward, his muscles relaxing under the gentle, repetitive motion, but hands settle on his temples and guide him back upright.

“Keep your chin up for me, dearest, so I can start your braid higher. Thank you.” Aziraphale’s prim voice, edges soft with affection, brings a smile to his face, and he straightens obediently.

“Sorry, angel.” Fingers sweep through his hair again, this time with more intent, and Crowley feels a half-up ponytail form before it’s divided into three sections. Over-under, over-under, little sections of loose hair captured on each pass, the soft tug of the tightening braid sending shivers of pleasure down his spine. His head tips forward again slowly as Aziraphale nears the end of the braid, fingers brushing the nape of his neck idly with each twist, and he sighs deeply with contentment as he feels the band secure his hair. Aziraphale’s hands rest on his shoulders for a moment and Crowley can feel his affectionate gaze like a tender brand on the back of his head.

“Beautiful. I love the way your hair looks braided- like a flowing river of flame. Thank you for allowing me to do that for you, my darling.” Crowley's laugh is a touch rough, his throat tightening with a sudden rush of emotion, and he presses into Aziraphale’s hands a bit.

“No- no problem, angel. Not like _ you’re _ the one doing _ me _ a favor or anything. Nah, really, makes perfect sense for you to thank me after you just-" Aziraphale tucks his fingers into the hair at his widow’s peak, guiding Crowley’s head back-back-back with a gentle tug that draws a hum of pleasure, the burgeoning ramble dissipating. Warm hands, as familiar as his own, cup Crowley's jaw to hold him still as Aziraphale leans down to sweetly kiss his forehead. Crowley’s smile widens, eyes flickering open (_When had he closed them?_) to catch sky blue and golden lashes and the lovely crinkles of smile lines.

“It’s my pleasure, darling. I love taking care of you. My spoiled serpent.” His voice is teasing but Crowley feels his cheeks flame a bright red nonetheless; the angel’s quiet giggles dampen his automatic, defensive response before it can properly form. Instead, he reaches up as he arches back further, tugging Aziraphale down for a proper (if upside down) kiss, feeling the grin pressed to his lips mirrored on his own face.

“If I’m _ actually _ spoiled, you’ll take the braid out and do it again.” The words are barely out of his mouth before he feels his hair falling loose and light to brush his shoulders again, and Aziraphale laughs outright at the surprise Crowley can feel overtaking his expression. “_Angel_.”

“All you ever have to do is ask, Crowley. I’m yours.” Crowley stares for a moment longer before a wicked smirk steals across his face.

“Will you pretty please come here so I can kiss you again, Aziraphale?” The angel gives a fondly exasperated sigh, nonetheless allowing himself to be pulled around to settle astride the footrest as well. He welcomes the limbs that coil around his body and slides his own arms around Crowley’s shoulders to get his hands back in silky hair, this time for a decidedly different reason. The hairbrush will need to be re-summoned by the time they get back around to braiding, but neither minds too much- a few tangles are a fair price to pay for endless, tender kisses on a lazy afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed- all comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> You can (occasionally) find me on [Tumblr](donotjustlive-fly.tumblr.com), although I'm far more active retweeting Good Omens fanart and just generally yelling about how much I love the Ineffable Husbands on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dontjustlivefly), so come say hello!


End file.
